


Striking Scourge

by sunbreaksdown



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Pseudo-Incest, Scourgecest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-07
Updated: 2011-12-08
Packaged: 2017-10-27 02:08:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunbreaksdown/pseuds/sunbreaksdown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the same way that Vriska ignores Mindfang's arrival, Mindfang does nothing to acknowledge her descendant sat there in the middle of the room, at first. She simply closes the door behind her, removes her hat and jacket, and then carries a bottle of something along with her as she takes a seat in one of the armchairs.</p><p>“Are you going to sit there all day?” Mindfang inquires, twisting the lid off the top of the glass bottle.</p><p>“Whatever,” Vriska grumbles, and is vaguely aware that she may well be pushing her luck. But she thinks that after a few sweeps at Mindfang's side, she knows which lines she can cross without fear of repercussion. Mindfang laughs softly under her breath as she pours herself a drink, and had Vriska been in a better mood, she'd tell her to shut up.</p><p>(Three short stories about the Scourge.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skepticArcher](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=skepticArcher).



> Bunch of giftfics for skepticArcher's birthday.
> 
> Complete with brief summaries to try explaining what the hell is going on in porn: a gameless AU, set sweeps in the future, when Vriska and Terezi are back to their Flarping ways.

     Terezi wonders out loud whether they're too old to be playing games, and Vriska grabs at her wrists, holding Terezi's bloody hands up to her face. She takes a deep breath of the rustblood and colder hues splattered across them, scrunching up her face in nothing close to disgust. Campaigns aren't _just_ games when there's a trail of dead chumps left in their wake, and besides, Vriska didn't think that Terezi would ever take her fixation with justice so lightly as to try dismissing the whole process.

     They return to Vriska's castle on the rocks, seal away the spoils in the treasure chamber, and Terezi rubs her hands against the parts of her Flarp outfit that drape, as if the whole of the fabric isn't encrusted with dried blood. When they're out on the high seas or striking out across the land, Terezi places herself into the role of neophyte legislacerator well enough. With her cane in hand, a blade she rarely ever needs to use hidden away in the handle, Terezi utterly _terrifies_ Vriska with the way she can bend others to her will, no eccentric powers of control required. But then they return to their hives, and Terezi lets the illusion of a scourge fade away all too quickly; she suddenly notices the blood on her skin, in her hair, and grumbles that such a flood of colour is going to leave her with a migraine, because her head's already spinning; she takes off her glasses, plays with them between her hands, prodding them against her fingertips; she laughs madly at the recollection of the campaign just ended, as if reflecting on it as a stranger, rather than one who had a dozen throats cut; and while Vriska may never have met Redglare, this isn't the woman Mindfang described in her journals.

     Vriska falls down against one of the sturdier chairs in her livingblock, because though she wants nothing more than to sprawl out across the sofa, that would be far from in character. She's still garbed in Mindfang's outfit, petticoats and chemises bunching up under the thick, black-blue-bloody jacket and shirt, and it wouldn't be right to simply lounge about. She sits with her back straight, hands gripping the wooden ends of the chair's arms, and crosses one leg over the other, thigh-high boots not helping the whole process go as smoothly as it could. Terezi yawns out something about getting cleaned up, and Vriska only grunts, staying where she is for a good few moments.

     Letting herself sit down has only served to remind her just how exhausted she is, but there's still work to be done. Vriska forces herself back to her feet, and collects the dead bodies left at her doorstep, lugging them over her shoulder and dragging them behind herself as she makes her way down, down, taking the endless staircase one step at a time. Tired though she is, Vriska keeps her eyes wide, because Mindfang wouldn't back down from something like this. Mindfang wouldn't let her body tense up at the mere thought of having to feed her lusus.

     Her obligation fulfilled, Vriska marches back up to her hive, feeling more like herself than the fearless pirate she's supposed to be. Even at the age of a dozen sweeps, Mindfang's hat still feels far too big for her. She keeps fiddling with the brim, twisting the feather into place, as she ascends back to the livingblock. Still, though the hat may not sit too well atop her tangle of hair, and though the spider-patterned boots may cause her feet to slip and slide inside of them a little, Vriska's hive doesn't feel as enormous as it once did; it won't be long before she has to start ducking in order to avoid scraping the tips of her horns against door frames.

     The scale of the place is harder to appreciate when she can hear Terezi in the washblock, gurgling with what Vriska sincerely hopes isn't sopor slime, splashing around in the ablution trap. Vriska smirks, and hopes it comes off as being smug enough. It's harder to feel ridiculous in her Flarp outfit when Terezi is around, and with a final tug, Mindfang's hat decides to allow itself to be properly positioned around her horns.

     Throwing a few logs into the cinders at the pit of the fireplace, Vriska kindles the flames before sinking back into her chair, and allowing her eyes to flutter to a close for a moment. Any peace the set-up alludes to is quickly shattered, because Terezi comes stomping in a handful of seconds later, short, wet hair, sticking to her face, Flarp costume clinging to her scrawny frame where she's neither bothered to change her clothing nor dry off properly. Putting the bloody outfit back on more or less ruins the point of washing altogether, but Vriska says nothing. She just grins, leaning forward in her seat, and when Terezi passes, reaches out to snatch her cane from her.

     “Hey!” Terezi says, lips curling into a snarl. Vriska laughs, crosses one leg over the other, and then rests the cane across her lap. “We had a truce, remember?”

     A truce in the loosest sense of the word, but enough to ensure that Neophyte Redglare and the Marquise could work together without constantly being at one another's throats. There had even been some element of real teamwork there, when the seas became particularly rough or the victim they'd hauled on board was tougher to crack than usual; a real spark of mutual respect, though grudgingly admitted to. Well, all of the great kismesissitudes have always been founded in blackened reverence. Vriska opens her mouth to point out that the truce doesn't hold if they're not _playing_ anymore, and then promptly manages to get herself to snap her jaw back shut.

     It's not often that Terezi allows the fanfare of Flarp linger on once they're back at the hive, and Vriska shuffles in her seat, fingertips brushing across the dragon-head handle of the cane as she considers the implications of Terezi holding character. She can't back down from such an obvious challenge, can't reach out and thwack Terezi with her own cane as she otherwise would, under any other circumstances.

     “Does the truce still hold if we're on my territory?” Vriska muses out loud, and stares down thoughtfully at the dragon's head as Terezi tugs one of her cherry red gloves back up to her elbow. “Surely I have all the say here.”

     Vriska strikes her open palm with the cane one, two, three times, just hard enough for Terezi to hear what she's doing. Terezi frowns, and then takes a slow step forward, back to the fireplace. When her legs bump against Vriska's knees, she does her best not to let anything in her expression flicker or twitch, and then folds her arms across her chest. She does a good job of towering over Vriska, there's no doubting that; looking up, Vriska sees the orange of the flames create a stark outline around Terezi's frame, around her horns, as her shadow's thrown against Vriska. It probably takes up the whole of the wall behind her.

     “If there's no truce here, Marquise, then I see no reason to hold back the full force of the law.”

     Taking the cane in one hand, Vriska presses the hook of the dragon's snout beneath Terezi's jaw, tilting her head back. Terezi leans forwards, hands pressing to the back of the armchair, effectively confining Vriska to the seat, but whatever it is she has planned next, Vriska successfully manages to ruin. She drops the cane back onto her lap, takes hold of Terezi by her hips, and then tugs her closer. Not wanting to flail, Terezi goes down easier than she'd like to, and ends up kneeling on the chair, thighs clamped around Vriska's.

     When she reaches for her cane, huffing, Vriska beats her to it, gripping it tightly between both hands. Terezi tugs on it, but Vriska doesn't relent.

     “The law? What is your precious law system going to do to me, Redglare?” Vriska asks, eyes fixed on the burning red of Terezi's. Terezi lets out a commendably flat, humourless laugh, and presses their foreheads together. “You've been trying to confine me to the gallows for decades. What makes you think you can succeed this time?”

     It's horribly dramatic and comes out sounding nothing short of entirely exaggerated, but Vriska can tell Terezi's in the exact sort of mood not to care how ridiculous it might seem in retrospect. Terezi shifts in her lap, just enough to make Vriska grip the cane tighter, and when she licks at her own lips, Vriska almost unsheaths the damn thing. Her breath is warm on her lips, and then it's not just Terezi's breath alone she can feel; and part of Vriska wants to point out that no, this is wrong, it's too abrupt and out of character, but she's not about to be the one to break off the kiss.

     There's a rustle of fabric as Terezi does _something_ , but it's difficult to care about anything that isn't avoiding jagged rows of mismatched teeth with her tongue as Terezi wastes no time in deepening the kiss. Doing her best to keep her hands on the cane, Vriska arches up against her, wonders why the hell she's wearing so many thick, heavy layers, and then let's out a yelp of surprise into Terezi's mouth when she feels cold metal biting at her wrists.

     Terezi laughs in return, and the noise travels down every link in Vriska's spine as Terezi takes hold of the sides of her face, clearly not intending to break things off straight away. When Vriska manages to tear her mouth away, Terezi keeps herself pressed close, nose against the line of her jaw, teeth grazing at her throat. Vriska scowls, does her best to block out the feeling, and then looks down at her hands. Her now restrained hands, considering that Terezi's gone ahead and slapped a pair of handcuffs around them. Vriska groans (definitely not because of the way that Terezi's tongue swipes over the shell of her ear), mentally kicks herself for forgetting that _of course_ they were part of her stupid roleplaying costume, and then tries to tug her wrists apart, though she knows it'll do her no good.

     “You let yourself become distracted too easily, Mindfang,” Terezi says, finally leaning back, confident enough now to move away from the realm of titles. The links in the chain between her wrists straighten out and pull taut, and then rattle as Vriska decides not to give Terezi the satisfaction of struggling too much.

     The grin spread around Terezi's face is intolerable, and Vriska forgets all about being exhausted, forgets about the muscles in her body aching. The only thing of any concern to her right now is knocking that grin off Terezi's face, and Vriska doesn't need to be able to move her hands independently of one another to do that. She narrows her gaze, lips curling into a cutting smirk. She hopes that Terezi can smell the frighteningly sudden rush of confidence that seeps from her.

     “Underestimating me again, Redglare?” she asks, sounding out her name slowly, cane falling from between her hands. The cuffs dig in at her wrists uncomfortably, but she doesn't let that stop her from running her fingertips against the strip of skin that flows between the top of Terezi's thigh-highs and her hips. The slits that run the whole length of Terezi's skirt gives Vriska plenty of room to manoeuvre. “No wonder you're still only a neophyte.”

     “That has nothing to do with—” Terezi begins, words lost to a hiss as Vriska rests her hands between Terezi's thighs, fingertips idly brushing against the fabric of her underwear.

     When Terezi doesn't immediately pull back, Vriska knows that she's going to get her way. It's strange just how easy the outfit makes this all, and for once in her life, Vriska's focused enough on what she's doing to ignore the sound of her own heart suddenly picking up the pace. She even manages to stay perfectly still when she feels Terezi's hips rock ever so slightly.

     “Nothing to do with what?” Vriska asks with a light, playful _hmmmmmmmm_ at the end, and doesn't worry about how she'll pay for any teasing later. Terezi may usually have the upper hand in these situations, but this isn't about Terezi; this is strictly between Mindfang and Redglare, and about as far from being as a game as things get.

     Terezi growls from the back of her throat, then lolls her head forward, foreheads coming together harder than before. Vriska presses a little harder with her fingertips.

     “I've got you right where I want you, Mindfa— _ah_ ,” Terezi mumbles out through grit teeth, just as Vriska decides to push her underwear to the side, fingers sliding against her. Face twisting up, Terezi seems to relent in some small way, and drapes her arms around Vriska's shoulders.

     Vriska thinks it seems very, very much like she's the one who has Terezi where she wants her, but she doesn't even need to voice that much out loud. Terezi _knows_ who's leading here, evident in the way that Terezi's hips rock forward when Vriska doesn't speed up her movements any more. Naturally, with her wrists bound, she can't hope to work quite as effortlessly as she usually would, but something about the awkward, unusual positioning of her fingers and the fact that Terezi's the one having to put in the real effort here seems to get to her. The chains rattle when Terezi just can't keep her still, and Vriska's throat turns dry when Terezi lets out a perfect little whimper.

     “What are you going to tell them back in the courtblock?” Vriska asks, lips grazing against Terezi's. She bites down on them, and Terezi screws her eyes shut, as if she's trying to grasp at the last dregs of self-control in her system. “I doubt they'd be pleased with hearing that your attempt at capturing me ended like _this_.”

     Terezi purses her lips tightly together, doing all she can to keep the words and noises alike back, but in the end, she can't help herself.

     “Hurry the hell up, Marquise!” she whines. A little blunt, Vriska thinks, but she thinks it's not completely unreasonable to assume that Redglare would act like this under duress. “Come _on_.”

     Vriska might laugh at the neediness suddenly racking Terezi, but that isn't to say that she doesn't intend to comply. Exhaling shakily, she repositions her hands, what with Terezi's constant to-ing and fro-ing, and slips two fingers inside of her. The fact that she hasn't purposely held back catches Terezi off-guard, and she gasps loudly, like she's trying to suck all of the air out of the room, and then makes no noise, for a moment, as she lowers herself onto Vriska's fingers.

     Terezi breaks their foreheads apart as she leans back, hands grasping at Vriska's shoulders, nails digging into her jacket. Vriska doesn't mind the diminished contact, because like this, she can watch Terezi as she pushes herself up and down on her knees. Vriska works her fingers inside of her as much as she can, chains clinking and digging in at her wrists as she does so, but she's beyond caring about any pain at this point. She can see Terezi's eyes screwed shut even through the coloured lenses of her glasses, the way she tilts her head back as she moans out, and Vriska takes the opportunity to tell her just how much she _hates_ her, and how she's never going to be good enough to capture her.

     She's grateful that Terezi's never been able to keep her voice down, because the more into it Terezi gets, the more noises that Vriska hears passing her own lips. She doesn't think it's very befitting of a Marquise, but she can't help it; she should be congratulated on staying in character for this long, because the feel of Terezi warm and wet around her is enough to throw her think pan into a state of disarray. Terezi gasps out something about a guillotine awaiting her between groans, but it's as incoherent as it is heady, and Vriska can't latch onto her words well enough. God, she regrets lighting that fire. Her costume sticks to her skin, her hair is matted to her forehead, and all she's doing is holding her hand out for Terezi.

     When it finally occurs to her that she _could_ do more, in spite of any restraints, Vriska stretches her thumb out, drawing rough, inconsistent circles against Terezi. Terezi moans out something she can't make sense of, followed by _Mindfang, Mindfang, Mindfang_ , and Vriska decides that she'll let Terezi off for the fact that maybe, just maybe, that last Mindfang was followed by a whimpering of _Serket_.

     Vriska flexes her fingers deep inside of her, and then Terezi tightens around them. She leans forward, panting and gasping incoherently into Vriska's neck, and Vriska has to twist her wrists to manage to pull her fingers free. Terezi shudders with the sensation, riding it out in Vriska's lap, and Vriska tolerates it for all of a moment, until the heat builds up far too much. Now that Terezi's stopped moaning, she's suddenly painfully aware of the pounding between her own legs, and she has every bit of confidence that she can hurry things along without seeming desperate.

     Mindfang is never _desperate_ , after all. Mindfang always has these things planned out to the last detail.

     Terezi pushes her glasses back into place as Vriska eases her back, and she allows Terezi a moment more to compose herself in the spirit of lowering her guard. Her face is flushed teal and her lips are parted every so slightly, and when she catches her breath, Terezi reaches down, trying to reclaim the cane that's been awkwardly pressed between them the whole time. Vriska manages to snatch at Terezi's wrist, even with her own bound, but doesn't keep hold of her for long. Her hands move up, fingers bunching in the collar of her shirt.

     “We're not done yet,” Vriska says, and with a great deal of precision, luck, and the fact that Terezi's head is likely still spinning, she manages to get Terezi off her lap, down onto the floor, kneeling before her. Her fingers tangle in Terezi's hair, still damp at the tips, and Terezi scrunches up her face, trying to duck out of the way of Vriska's hold. “You're a woman of the law, Redglare. Do try to play fair.”

     Sneering so that her teeth show, Terezi places both hands against the knees of Vriska's boots, as if to push herself back onto her feet. Unfortunately, Vriska's actually managing to think one step ahead. She throws the chain binding her cuffs together behind Terezi's neck, hands either side of her throat, and tugs her closer, between her legs. Terezi growls, nails scraping against the leather of her boots, and Vriska just _laughs_ , lifting her hips and not letting Terezi wrangle her way free.

     “Come now, Redglare. You wouldn't want them to say that you didn't give as good as you you got,” Vriska says, disproportionately pleased with herself. That definitely sounds like something Mindfang would say.

     And it seems to work. Terezi mutters angrily under her breath, complains that the chain hurts the back of her neck and tries to twist free, but within a matter of mere moments, she's got her hands under Vriska's skirt and petticoats, trying to fight her way through the fabric.

     Vriska lets out a pleased sigh, toes curling in her boots as she tries to steady herself, tries to thwart any anticipation she's subjected to. She can barely withstand the ache that ties her stomach in knots and sinks lower still as Terezi bunches back the fabric, and wastes neither time nor energy on pretending that she wasn't always going to tug her underwear down around her ankles, over her boots. Vriska's breathing picks up, and then Terezi's tongue is all over her inner thighs, and she's already making greedy, enthusiastic noises against her skin. Trying not to buckle and moan already, Vriska reorganises herself in the chair, hips sliding forward just a little, one leg lifting so that she can drape it across Terezi's back.

     Terezi works her tongue about as well as one would expect of a blind girl who sees the would through a myriad of tastes, and Vriska jerks in her seat, certain that not even Mindfang herself would be able to keep her composure. Goddammit, she's practically _trembling_ as Terezi strokes her tongue against her, inside of her, and her fingers tug at Terezi's hair, wrap around the base of her horns, and she isn't sure whether she's moaning out Redglare or Pyrope or something else altogether, but it doesn't seem to matter a damn bit. The point is that _she's_ got Terezi on her knees, caught up in the same chains that she tried restraining her with, and she's keeping her exactly where she is right now. She's in control here. It doesn't matter how forcefully she reacts to the way that Terezi's tongue swipes and coils and laps against her.

     “Can't believe they let you out of the courtblock for _this_ ,” Vriska murmurs, biting down on her lower lip over and over again. She tilts her head back, horns scraping against the back of the chair, hat tipping off and falling forwards.

     Terezi hums against her, either in agreement or just to be dismissive; Vriska can't tell which it is, but the sound reverberates through her, and she feels it down to her fingertips before she so much as hears it. She tries to say something more to goad Terezi on, moans out something about Redglare facing trial herself when the courtblock finds out that she's been using their time to fuck her target, and she's rewarded with a low, throaty laugh for her efforts. Her vision blurs, flashes and then blinds her, and when Terezi pushes two fingers inside of her, Vriska sees absolutely no reason to even try holding herself back.

     It surges through her, and even her teeth are left tingling. And Terezi, Vriska knows that she's well aware that she's already finished, but she keeps kicking away at her, sending little jolts through her that Vriska swears are going to be the end of her. It takes her a good handful of seconds to realise that Terezi can't exactly pull back, what with the chain pressing into the back of her neck, and with a groggy noise of realisation, Vriska lifts her arms, effectively freeing Terezi.

     Terezi stands back up in her own time, and then makes a show of licking her lips as loudly as possible.

     Vriska stretches out, goes to stand, but before she gets the chance to rise to her feet, Terezi's flopped down on her lap. She sits side on, legs hooked over one of the chair's arms, and Vriska would complain, if she wasn't currently in the process of unlocking the cuffs that are still holding her hands in place. They open with a _click_ , and before Vriska gets the chance to rub at the sore, blue marks that are probably going to blossom into bruises around her wrists, Terezi's grabbed at her hands, and is licking at them.

     “God,” Vriska says, tries to sound unimpressed, but can't stifle a laugh. “You're so fucking weird, Pyrope.”

     Terezi just gives her an obnoxious, self-satisfied grin, because she _knows_ that she's done well, and holds both of Vriska's hands between her own as she leans back against her. She doesn't even take the chance to snatch her cane back up, and as Vriska's bleary vision focuses on the fire before them, she recalls that _right_ , she'd been caught up in the very important process of being tired as hell. She shakes one hand free from Terezi's grasp, wraps it around her shoulders, and absent-mindedly traces the shape of the fast-fading indents left by chain links.

     “Maybe you were right for once,” Terezi says, smiling away softly, now that she doesn't have to worry about rubbing anything in or flipping quadrants for the sake of Flarping. “Maybe we're not too old for games.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The spiritual sequel to [Black Oceans](http://archiveofourown.org/works/268265).

     Her face is poorly rendered on wanted posters all throughout the city, and nobody seems capable of getting her horns the right way around. It's a miracle when whatever lowblooded, artistically challenged halfwit the courtblock has seen fit to hire doesn't ink crescents onto both of her horns, and she's even seen interpretations where the ends jut out and come to a point, like arrowheads.

     All things considered, it isn't terribly difficult to hide in plain sight. She is a pirate, noted for being at port, when she is not upon the sea itself, and so there are few who think to look for her in the heart of a marketplace, tens of miles from the coastline. There aren't even any good taverns around. If there are those who recognise her, or at least have a flicker of feeling that they know her from _somewhere_ , they're at least smart enough to keep quiet about the whole matter, reward be damned. The cut of her smile saves her from issuing a great number of threats, and making herself all the less distinctive doesn't take long. Off comes her pirate's hat, off comes her jacket, boots and skirt with her particular brand of blue stitched into the fabric, and what she replaces the outfit with is no less ostentatious. It's all lace and frills and spider-patterned stockings webbed around her thighs, but it's nothing befitting of a pirate. The ocean spray would ruin it.

     With her hair pulled back and a pair of tinted glasses rested on the bridge of her nose to hide the nobility of her blood, Mindfang walks straight into the courtblock, head held high.

     It's a colourful place. She walks past one of the great halls where a trial is currently under way, and hums to herself; not to cover up the sound of shrieking from inside, but to accompany the garbled tune. Down a long, winding corridor she goes, and she knows the layout so well that nobody questions her, nobody even suspects that she's where she shouldn't be. The otherwise drab stone floor outside of the cellblocks is splattered of an array of warm, rusted blood, but there's a speck of pine green there, too, along with a little glaucous.

     The heels of her boots clip against the floor. She's certainly not sneaking about, and has the grin spread across her face to prove it. Despite appearances, it's not the fact that she's brazenly marched into the courtblock during the busiest time of day that's got her heart rate threatening to speed up and her pace not quite as slow and steady as she'd like it to be. While good things may come to those who wait, Mindfang has always been of the opinion that even 8etter things come to those who 8oldly reach out and seize them with 8oth hands. It's not the fact that she could, theoretically, be caught at any moment, either; truth be told, the thought doesn't even occur to her. The officers and guards here are nothing short of a joke, the sort with a punchline that leaves her feeling very much like she needs more alcohol before tolerating any more of that nonsense. They're not going to be the ones to take her, or even come close to it. She could have them knelt in submission, their own hands wrapped around their throats, before they even connected enough thoughts in their think pans to realise who she was.

     Reaching her destination, Mindfang idly spares a glance down the corridor, opens the door, and quietly steps inside. Not quietly enough, of course; her dress rustles, and the door _clicks_ shut behind her. She wants to be heard.

     The office is a small one, and far too simplistic for Mindfang's liking. There isn't even anywhere to relax; just a wooded desk and two rigid chairs, one lone bookcase over in the corner. It really is dreadfully dull, but she doesn't particularly care to linger on transgressions against furniture and comfort alike at the moment. What she _does_ care about is the legislacerator sat behind that abdominal desk. The legislacerator who's doing a remarkable job of pretending that she hasn't noticed Mindfang's presence, even though Mindfang _knows_ that she must be able to hear the unusual rapidity of her heartbeat.

     Leant forward, Redglare crinkles her nose as she breathes in through it, and then continues scrawling with a quill across the document before her. Good god, Mindfang thinks, what, exactly, is a blind woman doing, sat there under the pretence that she can actual write anything of discernible quality? Ordering somebody's death sentence, she supposes a moment later. In the name of the law, of course. Not willing to be the first one to speak up, Mindfang removes her glasses, carefully folds the arms in, and hooks them around the low-cut collar of her shirt. Redglare certainly manages to hold her tongue for a good long time, relatively speaking, and finishes up penning her legal drivel, before reaching for a stamp, and bringing it down against the page, hard.

     Elbows rested against the desk, fingertips pressed together, Redglare leans back in her seat, frowning.

     “You shouldn't be here, Marquise,” she says, and manages to sound _bored_ by the prospect of Mindfang having gone to the trouble of infiltrating a building where, was her presence known, it would be her neck for then noose. Mindfang presses the pad of her tongue to her upper lip, and then sighs. She does so enjoy it when Redglare goes to the effort of infuriating her further.

     There is a lot Mindfang could say in return. She could tell Redglare that _she_ shouldn't be here, because a killer is a killer is a killer, regardless of the caste they take down and the crimes committed therein, and so she belongs out on the sea with her. She could ask her how she expects to keep a kismesissitude going when they're apart so very much, or she could idly inquire into whether or not Redglare is going to call for the guards and have her in shackles. Instead, she crosses the room at her leisure, taking slow, measured steps, hoping that Redglare will anticipate them, one after another, and perches herself on the edge of the desk.

     “How did you know it was me?” she asks after a moment, and uses one finger to push the pot of ink to the very edge of the desk.

     Redglare scowls, and then picks up her paperwork that's covered by immaculately legible handwriting, placing it into a drawer, lest Mindfang crumple it, inadvertently or otherwise.

     “You smell like a courtesan's boudoir,” Redglare says, raising one eyebrow, and Mindfang tuts, rolling her eyes.

     “You know how I hate it when you go to such great lengths to be polite, darling,” Mindfang says, reaching out, fingers hooking beneath Redglare's jaw. While she has no doubt that Redglare expected as much, she still has the satisfaction of feeling her muscles tighten, teeth grinding together. “Why don't you say what you really mean?”

     Redglare just laughs flatly, lifting a hand to try knocking Mindfang's back. Mindfang relents, but only for a moment, and takes hold of Redglare's wrist so that the contact isn't fully broken. While Redglare doesn't immediately move to tug her hand back, Mindfang is under no illusion of her keeping still being for any other reason but to establish the fact that she is calm, able to control herself, and not about to back down from any of Mindfang's challenges.

     “How long do you have?” Redglare asks, very slowly beginning to move her hand. Mindfang's grip on her wrist loosens, and Redglare slides her hand down so that their palms press together. Like that, she flexes her fingertips, nails dragging down Mindfang's palm and digging in at the heel. Mindfang shudders, and silently congratulates herself on neglecting to wear gloves tonight.

     It takes her a moment to remember to answer.

     She shrugs eloquently, hoping the nonchalance of the gesture carries in her voice.

     “Minutes.”

     Again, Redglare makes a habit of scowling, and with a delighted laugh, Mindfang sees nothing else for it but to take hold of her jaw for a second time, thumb pressing to her lower lip.

     “How many?” Redglare asks, not about to suffer any unnecessarily frivolities, and though Mindfang adores it when Redglare makes the effort to engage her in civilised conversation, right now it's not the thought of answering that has her rapt attention. Rather, it's Redglare's teeth. Mindfang uses her thumb to drag her lower lip down, and exhales, pleased, when she sees that they're as mismatched as ever, though each one is absolute in its cutting edge.

     When Mindfang doesn't answer, Redglare narrows her vacant gaze, catching Mindfang's thumb between her teeth, like a vise. She grazes her teeth back and forth, well aware of what she's doing, but still Mindfang says nothing. In truth, Mindfang would like little more than to sit there and toy with Redglare like so all night and day, but when Redglare's grip tightens and it begins to sting, she realises that she really doesn't have time to waste.

     “Two dozen of them. Three, perhaps,” Mindfang says, and then pulls her thumb free.

     Redglare looks as thoroughly unimpressed with that as she always does with things that come from Mindfang's mouth, and Mindfang runs her fingers through Redglare's hair, nails catching against the base of one horn, before she leans in to kiss her. Knowing that time is of the essence, for once Redglare doesn't try to delay the inevitable. Mindfang places her free hand on Redglare's shoulder, because she knows that Redglare will never feel comfortable being put at a disadvantage like that; and right on cue, Redglare lifts both hands, fingers bundling in the collar of her shirt.

     Mindfang smirks into the kiss and Redglare huffs in return, but no matter how reluctant she might try making herself out to be, let it never be said that the woman ever wastes any time when it comes to the matter of her tongue. If the legal system is to continue to stand on Alternia, and right and wrong are to be quantified by way of laws and legislation, then the next thing to be made illegal should be Redglare's tongue. It is lethal, utterly debilitating, and already Mindfang finds herself gasping into Redglare's mouth as she allows herself to be pulled closer and closer. But it's not an open display of weakness, making desperately greedy sounds against her lips like that; it's all for show, because Mindfang knows exactly how this gets to Redglare. Her fingers brush across Redglare's throat, and Mindfang feels her pulse fight against her fingertips. She wonders what would happen if she pressed down too hard. She wonders if Redglare's teeth would make ribbons of her lips.

     She keeps on wondering, overcome by impatience because of it.

     “Stand up,” Mindfang says when she finds it in herself to break off the kiss for the briefest of moments. Redglare grunts, pulls her back into another kiss, showing no signs of being about to move. Once again, Mindfang breaks off the kiss, but not before using her flat front teeth to bite down on Redglare's lower lip. “I said stand up, Redglare.”

     Again, Redglare ignores her demands, and keeps on kissing her like kissing is all this is ever going to amount to. Mindfang growls, and then Redglare is laughing gleefully into her mouth, nothing if not entertained by her annoyance. Redglare knows they have far too little time, and yet she purposely goes out of her way to disobey her, and a big part of Mindfang is certain that she only does it to anger her further. Unfortunately for Redglare, Mindfang is a woman who's used to getting her way. She's used to getting her way with a mere thought, and yet with Redglare, she actually has to work for it.

     Swinging her legs over the desk, she stands so that she's at Redglare's side, breaks her hands away from her collar, and then has her own gripping Redglare's shoulders tightly. In an instant, she's pulled her to her feet, and with a few quick, strong sides, there she is, teeth grit together, with Redglare pinned firmly between her and the wall. It's things like this that make her wonder why she'd ever bother with mind control in the first place, because there's something decadent about getting things done with her own two hands. Especially when those two hands can press against Redglare wherever she pleases, hips jutting into the back of hers, face momentarily buried in the nape of her neck.

     “Marquise,” Redglare warns her, voice low and threatening and doing nothing to concern Mindfang in the least. “Release me.”

     _This_ is why she does it. This is why she stows away from her own ship, why she leaves her fleet in the docks, treasure left at the mercy of the gamblignants. Not for the rush of the courtblock knowing that they were so, _so_ close to capturing her, but because of the thought of how Redglare must feel about this. How she must wonder what would become of her if her superiors knew that she allowed one of their targets to come and go as she pleased, and how she would never rise about the rank of neophyte if anyone ever found out how she allows the Marquise to press her to the wall, hands roaming across her stomach, lips pressing bruising kisses to the exposed back of her neck.

     She needs Redglare to know that she has her exactly where she wants her. She wants Redglare to accept the respect she has for her, the depths of her own blackened feelings, and she wants Redglare writhe under her fingers and tongue and moan out just how much she hates her. With a thud, Redglare presses her forehead to the wall, and Mindfang knows that she's already won, though they've barely started.

     “Mm,” Mindfang hums right in her ear, hitching Redglare's shirt up. Her fingertips patter across warm skin, and she feels every muscle pull taut. “Much better. I had no doubt that you'd come around eventually; you always do.”

     Redglare dignifies the insinuation with nothing more than a growl, and when Mindfang feels her press back against her, she knows that Redglare is determined to get this over and done with as quickly as is possible. Had they more time, Mindfang would spent long hours breaking her down, bit by bit. But as things are, the minutes are fast ticking away, and she's hardly about to deny herself what she came here for.

     “Make it easier for me, won't you?” Mindfang asks, but it's never been difficult. Not with Redglare's uniform, and the way the slits her her skirt come to a point at her hip, letting Mindfang's hand slide under the fabric at just the right angle. Still, Redglare shows a rare bit of compliance in her need for this to be _happening_ , for the anticipation and teasing to be over, and spreads her legs apart as Mindfang's fingers slide in between them. “Oh, darling. You should have told me to hurry things along. Far be it from me to keep you waiting when you're quite this needy.”

     Again, Redglare's response isn't much more than a single, detestably perfect noise. Mindfang works her fingers a little quicker with practised ease, and feels Redglare's knees buckle the slightest amount. Not about to let her escape their current position quite so easily, Mindfang leans forward, supporting her weight a little more, holding her in place. Not that Redglare has any intention of being kept in place, though Mindfang doesn't see how her rocking her hips is going to help free her from her current predicament.

     Two fingers push inside of Redglare, she whimpers wonderfully, and Mindfang hates to be the one to silence her, but she does what she must.

     “For the love of all things nautical, keep your voice down, woman,” Mindfang hisses, and then moves her fingers deeper, knowing it to be an almost impossible task for Redglare. She's never been able to keep quiet, and Mindfang has always luxuriated in every last sound she can get out of her. “You wouldn't want to be caught in such a scandalous predicament, would you? — _would_ you?”

     Redglare hisses, bucks her hips back against Mindfang as if to push her away, and in the next moment is pressed up on her tiptoes, trying futilely to get closer to Mindfang's fingers, as if Mindfang isn't already giving all that she has.

     “If that were to happen, I— I'd show myself to the gallows,” Redglare whines, pausing between words, determined not to moan any of them out. “—why don't you _help me_ , Marquise.”

     It's not a mere suggestion, but Redglare is in no fit state to be issuing orders. Mindfang genuinely considers clamping her hand over Redglare's mouth and allowing her to bite at her fingers, but she's done so before, and all too recently at that. She'd hate to become repetitive. She hums thoughtfully, and then her nails rake lines across Redglare's stomach.

     “Sorry. I'm somewhat preoccupied at the moment.”

     Again, Redglare bucks back against her, but before she can let any other noises slip out, she removes one hand from the wall and clamps it over her own mouth. Doing so only seems to make the noises all the easier to get out of her, and Mindfang lets her eyes flutter to a close, listening to muffled moans that become trapped between Redglare's own fingers. Feeling that she ought pick up the pace, Mindfang twists her wrist at just the right angle, as if she's been holding out on Redglare the whole time. Redglare's knees almost give way again, but she saves herself by reaching back with her free hand, and grabbing a fistful of Mindfang's hair.

     “Almost there,” Mindfang announces cheerfully, and then presses her cheek to Redglare's, using her nose to nudge at Redglare's fingertips. “Come now, don't hold back on me so. Let me hear it.”

     Redglare screws her eyes shut even tighter and shakes her head over and over, as if she's really going to be able to hold back. Mindfang allows her a moment of defiance, slows the pace of her fingers, and kisses the corner of her jaw before glancing across the room at Redglare's cane. It wouldn't be hard for Redglare to cut her throat, or at least run her through well enough to capture her. Not in this exact instance, perhaps, but there have been plenty of tussles in this room before, and Mindfang delights in the fact that she knows Redglare can't bring herself to do it. Not here. Not like this.

     She wants it to count for something, wants to catch her on an even playing field where the weight of the law will really be felt. Besides, Mindfang doubts that having got the great pirate Mindfang's wrists bound by ropes after having her bent over a desk would be a particularly good tale to tell during the inevitable trial.

     “Let me hear it,” Mindfang says slowly, voice low. It's no longer a request.

     Still, Redglare keeps her silence. Mindfang knows that the only thing for it is to slow her fingers to almost a complete stop, though her wrist aches for it, and then Redglare is groaning against her own palm, likely scolding herself for wanting to give in so easily. She rocks her hips harder, pushes herself up on her toes and grinds back against Mindfang, but still, Mindfang doesn't allow her to take as much as she needs. When she sees Redglare bite at her own fingertips, she knows that she's won.

     She traces a path up from Redglare's stomach, not stopping until she reaches her mouth, and is almost gentle in the way that she eases Redglare's fingers back from her lips. There's nothing she could do to make this harder on Redglare, and she knows that any feigned tenderness will only fuel her contempt.

     “I—” Redglare begins, teeth grit, and when she hesitates, Mindfang pushes her fingers deeper inside of her, flexing them. Redglare moans, and she moans loud enough for anyone in the corridor passing the office to hear, but Mindfang won't let her forget what she was doing quite that easily. She hisses in Redglare's ear for her to just say it, _say it_ , and works her fingers harder, faster, well aware that it's too much for Redglare. Redglare's fingers tighten in her hair, and she tugs hard against it, gasping out, “I _hate_ you.”

     That's all it takes for Mindfang to have the inclination to finally push Redglare over the edge. Redglare moans in a way that will ring in her ears for perigees to come, and Mindfang doesn't let up her movements, wanting it to last for as long as it possibly can; wanting Redglare to have absolutely no chance of forgetting just how malleable she always becomes under her touch, her rapt words. When Redglare can stand it no longer, her whole body goes slack, and Mindfang takes her time in pulling her fingers out, arms wrapping around her waist.

     “Get off me, Marquise,” Redglare grumbles, planting an elbow into the side of Mindfang's waist. Mindfang _oof_ s despite Redglare not quite having the energy to put any force into it, and only lets go because she knows that she should have already made her exit.

     “Back to the cold formality of titles, is it? Unless my ears deceived me, you could scarcely keep my name of your lips as you moaned into your own open palm,” Mindfang says with a smirk, running her fingers through her tangle of hair, trying to undo the damage Redglare just did.

     Not taking the time to answer her, Redglare sits back down at her desk, and Mindfang supposes that she can't fault her for that. After all, her legs probably aren't in the best shape to support her at this very moment. Mindfang circles the room slowly, delaying the inevitable goodbye that Redglare craves, and leans against the other side of the desk.

     “I'll leave you be,” she says, kissing Redglare's forehead as the ridiculous woman actually tries to start working again, “And hope that you present more of a challenge when next we meet.”

     Redglare just exhales heavily through her nose, and Mindfang is well aware that they both know there'll be no challenge in their next meeting. They can pretend they'll meet on some battlefield, or that the law will catch up with Mindfang when she can no longer outrun it, but the courtblock is far too easy to stroll into, and Mindfang would hate to pass up the opportunity to make a mockery of all Redglare believes in.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This works on the basis that the ancestors are still alive in the days of the descendants, and Vriska and Terezi have both been working alongside their respective ancestors for some time.

     Darkleer moulds the metal to match the jagged lines leftover where bone was blown away, and so she doesn't have to lose too much more of her shoulder. He fits the framework, embeds the wires and sets a rolling steel ball in the new socket he's welded, and Vriska stares down at the joint with wide, unblinking eyes as it _moves_ with nothing more than a mere thought. Just like any other part of her body, he assures her, but this isn't an amalgamation of blood, flesh and muscle; Vriska can see her reflection in the unscathed surface. She doesn't know whether to feel awed or nauseated.

     He fits her with a prototype arm while he creates the real thing, and tells her that it won't take long. He can used the same blueprints he used to make Mindfang's, and just the thought of it makes Vriska cringe, because she can't believe that _Mindfang_ has seen her in such a sorry state. The prototype fits with a crack of a spark that doesn't hurt, but Vriska winces anyway, busy nursing her wounded pride. It's a spindly, frail looking thing, and Vriska thinks she could snap it in two with her good hand, if she had the energy to do as much. Instead, she works on controlling it, which confounds her in its simplicity. She overworks it, fingers bending back unnaturally far when she first flexes them. And though it moves when she bids it to and there are some rudimentary sensors here and there that at least let her feel the basic shape of whatever it is she grasps, to Vriska, it's as if her shoulder is still hollowed out, flesh burnt blue, blood pooling at her feet.

     The actual arm will be more responsive, apparently. It will be designed to be as dexterous as her old one, and she won't even notice the change; it'll be just like it was before, except for the part where it's cold and heavy and clinks with her every movement. Vriska spends the next few nights working on minute movements, only half listening to whatever it is Darkleer whines on and on about. She doesn't quite latch onto more than the basic gist of it, but she can tell well enough that he's as dreadfully intolerable as Mindfang made him out to be.

     Darkleer fits the arm, all grey steel and cerulean silicone covering the inner workings, and Vriska's not sure whether she says thanks or not. More to the point, she doesn't really care how she leaves him behind, because her only concern is getting back to Mindfang. In spite of that, she doesn't rush back to port. Mindfang may have assured her that she had no intention of setting sail until she returned, but that's no good reason for Vriska to waste time as she does. Still, it's hard for her to believe that Mindfang will really be so welcoming when she was so utterly _useless_ to her in the courtblock's last raid against the gamblignants.

     And yet when she steps foot on deck, Mindfang greets like like it's business as usual, as if Vriska isn't hulking around some metal monstrosity from the shoulder down. Some part of her should probably be proud of the fact that they match even more than they previously did, but all that realisation does is leave her wondering bitterly if she's going to lose her vision eightfold next, too. She stands by the mast, not knowing what to do, and eventually settles on putting herself to use. The crew have already patched up most of the ships, have dealt with the recent raid well enough, but there's still a little debris lying around here and there, and so Vriska drags her feet along, reaching down with her flesh-arm to toss loose pieces of charred wood overboard.

     When the sky turns from dark to dim, Vriska scurries out of the open with less enthusiasm than the rest of the crew, and finds herself at the door of Mindfang's chambers. She shrugs to herself before stepping in, because Mindfang's made it clear more than once that she's always welcome, and if she's going to sulk, then someone sure as hell is going to know about it. Standing in the centre of the room that's so extravagant Vriska still hasn't worked out how it doesn't sink the whole damn ship under the weight of its grandiose interior, she glances from one piece of bolted down furniture to the next, and eventually settles on sitting down on the floor.

     She hugs her knees to her chest, well aware that she must look like a wiggler, but her body still aches, and it's not just the raw scar tissue that's sending uncomfortable spasms through her. There are bruises coming up all over her, but bruises are nothing new in her line of work as a pirate, and all in all, she should consider herself grateful for not having to carry around any broken bones. Vriska stares down at the metal arm, the arm that distinctly isn't _hers_ , and doesn't even look up when the door opens and Mindfang steps in.

     In the same way that Vriska ignores Mindfang's arrival, Mindfang does nothing to acknowledge her descendant sat there in the middle of the room, at first. She simply closes the door behind her, removes her hat and jacket, and then carries a bottle of something along with her as she takes a seat in one of the armchairs.

     “Are you going to sit there all day?” Mindfang inquires, twisting the lid off the top of the glass bottle.

     “Whatever,” Vriska grumbles, and is vaguely aware that she may well be pushing her luck. But she thinks that after a few sweeps at Mindfang's side, she knows which lines she can cross without fear of repercussion. Mindfang laughs softly under her breath as she pours herself a drink, and had Vriska been in a better mood, she'd tell her to shut up.

     “I know you're upset, but demoting yourself to the floor isn't going to help matters in the least. Come here, Vriska.” She's always done that, has always called her _Vriska_ , and not _Serket_ , like the rest of the gamblignants and just about everyone else Vriska knows, nowadays. Vriska's always liked that, and it's only reason that she eventually relents, palm pressed flat against the floorboards to push herself up.

     She makes her way over to Mindfang, tries to pull her face into an expression that isn't so overwhelmingly pathetic, and then stands before her, shoulders hunched up. Mindfang simply glances up at her and holds the eye contact, sipping on her drink as she does so, and Vriska doesn't know whether she's expected to apologise for being such an abysmal fuck-up, or thank Mindfang for ensuring that she didn't have to go long without an arm. Even though she hates it, even though it doesn't feel _right_. Deciding that the safest course of action revolves around doing nothing at all, Vriska remains still and silent until Mindfang takes hold of her wrist and pulls her closer with a sharp tug.

     Vriska ends up in a bundle on her lap, and quickly shuffles to get more comfortable, knees hooked over one of the arms. Mindfang drapes one arm out to support her back, and then leans closer, nose pressed to Vriska's cheekbone, kissing her there. Vriska breathes out heavily, eyes closing as her body tenses. Under any other circumstances, she'd revel in even a scrap of attention from Mindfang, but right now, she doesn't want to be here. She doesn't want to be here, but she doesn't want to be _anywhere_.

     “It's not so utterly dreadful,” Mindfang says, fingertips tracing the shape of the shell of Vriska's robotic arm. She lifts her own metallic one, and flexes each finger, one after another, as if she's mastered the movement through muscle memory. “You'll get used to it.”

     Instinctively, Vriska raises her new arm in the same manner, and tries to move her fingers as fluidly as Mindfang did. They bend at awkward angles, leaving a whirl of gears cutting into the air in the movement's wake. Vriska grits her teeth together, scowls, and then balls her hand into such a tight fist that it's like she's trying to dent the mental beyond repair. Again, Mindfang laughs, and Vriska swears under her breath, trying to get to her feet.

     “Now, now,” Mindfang says, arm wrapping tightly around her to keep her where she is. Her hand, the metal one, presses lightly against Vriska's cheek, thumb drawing a crescent beneath her seven eyes. “Try not to fret too much, darling. The fact of the matter is that you kept the important part, and limbs can always be replaced.”

     Vriska wants to tell her to fuck off, because she _liked_ that arm, but just tilts her head towards Mindfang's palm, feeling some of the tension drain from her system when she realises that she's still of use to her. Mindfang breaks off the contact to take hold of the glass that was precariously resting atop her thigh and against Vriska's hip, refills it, and pushes it into Vriska's hand. She picks up the bottle for herself, and Vriska decides that drinking is probably the exact thing she needs right now. She brings the glass to her lips, knocks back half of it in one go, and then scrunches up her whole face when the taste catches up with her.

     Trust Mindfang to start with the strong stuff.

     Vriska watches from the corner of her eye as Mindfang drinks from the bottle like it's nothing more than water, and with a sigh, leans against her. Mindfang doesn't take a break from the bottle until it's two-thirds depleted, and then rests one hand against the back of Vriska's head and the other just above her knee, and Vriska tries desperately to think of what could ever be _good_ about having a robot arm. She can't write herself off as a complete failure for having been forced to obtain it, because she'd be slighting Mindfang in the process, and she's certainly never looked down on her for having prosthetic parts. Hell, if anything, it just makes Mindfang look _cool_. Maybe Mindfang's right. Maybe all she needs is time to get used to it, needs to let the damaged flesh around it heal over properly before it can begin to really feel like part of her.

     “This is so dumb,” Vriska says, finishing off the second half of her drink with some measure of reluctance, preemptively aware of how it's going to taste. “I feel like I'm going to break everything.”

     She looks down at her open metal palm, then over to the glass in its flesh and blood opposite, and tries to take hold of the glass with it. She's successful, for certain values of success. She gets hold of the glass, doesn't completely shatter it, but it scrapes against the hard surface, falling down into her lap. Mindfang says nothing, doesn't even laugh this time, and just picks up the glass and deposits it on the floor, next to the bottle.

     Vriska groans, and doesn't stop frowning until Mindfang decides that she's had quite enough of this particular brand of nonsense, tilts her jaw back, and kisses her. It's difficult to wallow in misery like that, and Vriska finds herself a little too eager, like maybe the whole reason she wandered over to Mindfang's chamber in the first place was because she was stupid and needy and just wanted to take her mind off things. To take her mind off _everything_. For a few moments, it's difficult to remember why she ever cared about her missing arm at all, but then she reaches for Mindfang's shoulders, and becomes all too aware that she's pressing metal fingertips against her collarbone.

     She disrupts the flow of the kiss, tries to pull her hand away, but then Mindfang's kissing her all the deeper, fingers wrapped around her wrist, keeping her hand in place. Vriska supposes that there's nothing for it but to keep on kissing her until she feels better, because far be it from her to dictate the pace of things.

     “Don't for a minute think that you could break me,” Mindfang eventually mumbles with good humour against her mouth, and Vriska wants to know why she has to choose now to speak up, why she can't just go back to sucking on her lower lip. “And don't think that you need to be afraid of your new parts, either.”

     Vriska wants to make it very clear that she's not _afraid_ , because she's Vriska Serket and she isn't afraid of anything, because how could Mindfang's descendant even be capable of displaying fear, anyway? but then Mindfang makes a compelling argument for her shutting up when she takes hold of her hips, pulling her closer. Feeling her head spin from the alcohol, Vriska is nothing if not compliant, rearranging her legs until she's straddling Mindfang's lap, wrists resting loosely on her shoulders.

     “Better,” Mindfang hums, hands moving an inch or two up from Vriska's hips, thumbs hooking beneath the hem of her shirt. Vriska does her best to keep her eyes on Mindfang's, but the woman's never shied away from staring, and Vriska doesn't know if being so blatantly watched makes her shudder with discomfort or become racked with the need to take in as much of it in as she can. “I've had sweeps to get used to this, you realise. I couldn't imagine being without it.”

     Mindfang emphasises the words _this_ and _it_ by pressing the smooth surface of her metal thumb down against the curve of Vriska's hipbone, and with a smirk, slowly runs both hands up under her shirt. Vriska inhales sharply, pushes herself up on her knees and arches her back a little, amazed that she's only now taking the time to consider just how different Mindfang's two hands feel. Her flesh one seems to glide across her skin, fingertips brushing between every rib, nails catching on her skin, and the cold, hard shell of the other makes Vriska shiver, skin breaking out into goosebumps.

     It must be because she now has one of her own. She's suddenly become aware of just how damn strong it is, how unwieldy it can be, as if she actually needed another reason to be enthralled by and terrified of Mindfang all at once. Vriska gasps loudly as Mindfang's palms cover her breasts, and when she tilts her head back, she feels the heat of Mindfang's mouth cover her pulse point.

     Vriska rocks her hips against Mindfang's lap, because she always knows exactly how to put things into perspective. Vriska's absolutely certain that she has the best ancestor there is, and this belief is only further enforced when Mindfang's teeth grazing against her throat coincided with her fingertips working against her nipples. Groaning, she twists the fingers of her flesh hand in Mindfang's long hair, not yet having lost the presence of mind to not worry about the metal tangling and catching in her hair.

     “Mindfang—” she moans out, because she knows what Mindfang likes to hear, knows that the woman thrives on being appreciated.

     “Hmm?” Mindfang makes an encouraging noise against the corner of her jaw, rolling a nipple between cold fingers, well aware of how to make Vriska whimper.

     “I hate them,” Vriska murmurs, and when she realises that her metal hand is twitching, she decides that there's nothing for it but to take hold of one of Mindfang's horns, because surely she can't break _that_. She grips it tightly, practically able to feel Mindfang smirk against her skin, and is rewarded for her initial assertion in Mindfang beginning to hitch up her shirt. “Stupid, goddamn lousy, no-good lawrats, acting like they've got higher blood than us, and—”

     Vriska has absolutely no idea where that's going, but it seems to please Mindfang well enough. She momentarily drifts back to her senses when Mindfang stops what she's doing with both her fingers and mouth in order to pull Vriska's shirt all the way off, and Vriska takes hold of Mindfang's horn again just as soon as is possible. The cold of the room hits her in a different way than the cold of Mindfang's metal did, and she inhales shakily, almost freezing up entirely when Mindfang bows her head and brushes her lips around the rough lines of burnt blue flesh where metal meets muscle. It hurts, not the contact, but being exposed like that, and then Mindfang's reaching up, pressing her fingers between the slats of steel that make up her new shoulder blade. She twists _something_ and a jolt rushes through the whole of Vriska, and _fuck_ , that does it, now she's really pissed.

     She grips Mindfang's horn tighter, tugs at her hair, and then bucks her hips against her, demanding.

     “Fuck them,” Vriska hisses, and Mindfang does it again, making her vision flash blue and then not clear properly. “Fuck them and fuck the courtblock and fuck His Honourable Fucking Tyranny! Fuck them for thinking they even have a right to get _close_ to you...”

     “That's right,” Mindfang hums against her shoulder, and then traces a line across her collarbone with her lips. “But Redglare and her descendant won't be able to track us forever. The teal of their blood will catch up with them, sooner or later.”

     It's then that Vriska realises just how much she's panting, and though Mindfang plays a big part in that, it's the frustration that really does it. She grinds herself against Mindfang, mouth dry, and can't even conceptualise how to slow down and catch her breath. Taking hold of her hips, Mindfang lets her mouth wander lower still, and then Vriska can feel her lips brushing against one nipple, and yes, _yes_ , together they're going to take out Pyrope and Redglare and the whole damn law system, and then no one on sea or land will be able to stop them.

     “They took my _arm_ ,” Vriska groans, fighting against Mindfang's grip, needing more.

     “I know, Vriska,” is all that Mindfang says in reply, but there's something like sympathy in her voice, soon lost when she swipes out her tongue across hardened flesh. Vriska bites on her lower lip, having not been ready for it, no matter how worked up she was, and then Mindfang makes everything infinitely worse by beginning to suck.

     Vriska clings to her tightly, mind flashing between exhaustion and need and just plain anger, and then the whole of her body is too muddled for her to be even remotely aware of Mindfang deftly unbuckling the waist of her pants until she's slipped her hand down the front of them. Mindfang doesn't do much with that hand, if only because she knows that she doesn't need to; she continues to suck roughly at Vriska's nipple, and Vriska does the rest for her, bucking and rocking her hips, working herself down against her.

     At some point, Vriska's certain that her new arm aches, even if that makes no sense at all. She wonders if Mindfang did something with the mechanics when she was sending jolts through her, and Vriska tries to shake the tension by releasing her hold on Mindfang's horn, instead reaching down to grab her shoulder, hard enough to hurt. Mindfang growls at that, but Vriska can't let go, and doesn't care to try, not when she can feel Mindfang's teeth scraping against her.

     Everything melds together in that moment, from her resentment towards those who would hunt them, to the feeling of Mindfang's tongue and teeth and fingers working her body and mind past the point of comprehension, until everything is just a buzz, a rippling, a sensation tearing through her. Even when Mindfang breaks off the contact, Vriska's body is still taut, and she leans down, kissing Mindfang, feeling her chuckle lightly into her mouth.

     “Are you quite ready to stop sulking now, Vriska?” Mindfang asks, taking a firm hold of her jaw, “I don't want you giving our symbol an undeserved reputation.”

     “Yeah, yeah,” Vriska says between deep, heavy breaths, slumping back against her when her think pan can no longer logically put together the sequence needed to initiate a kiss. “I'm fiiiiiiiine. I'm better than fine! I've got a super-strong robot arm to break heads with.”

     Vriska reaches down to Mindfang's lap, and begins hitching up her petticoats as Mindfang in turn reaches for her alcohol and takes a deep drink, smirking around the neck of the bottle.

     Head tilted back, drops of the drink caught on her slightly parted lips, Mindfang brushes her fingers through Vriska's hair, between her horns, carefully guiding her down as she murmurs, “That's more like it, darling.”


End file.
